


in hindsight | tony stark

by starkau



Series: a slice of life, avengers edition [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie), F/M, Fluff, I KNEW I COULD DO IT, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), aka how civil war should've ended, aka my whipped sad ass consoling tony through an o/c, came to me on a total whim please excuse how short this is, how could you tell i'm team iron man? still love cap though, more tag rambles heck yea, reader is not an avenger LOOK, rhodey deserves better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15222353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkau/pseuds/starkau
Summary: “Believing in me,” Tony mutters, shaking his head. “You’ve been making that mistake for three years.”





	in hindsight | tony stark

“Oh, no no no no. That hurts like a bitch.” He plunges very suddenly, and you and Tony both lunge to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground again. “ _Holy_ shit. What the hell.”

Tony sighs, holding tight onto Rhodey’s arm as the War Machine looks at his prosthetic leg with pure, untarnished disdain. Rhodey presses a hand against one of the metal bars that are on either side of him to support him, breathing hard.

“Take it easy,” Tony breathes, securing his arm around Rhodey’s neck. “You’re not helping yourself by going any faster than physically capable.”

“What was the point of giving me a fake leg if it doesn’t work?” He seethes, lifting an arm to wipe off the sweat beading on his forehead.

“How bad does it hurt?” You respond, concerned. “Do you want to sit down?”

He considers it, eyeing the couches across the room, glancing at his leg, and heaving a sigh. There’s no doubt that he wants differently, though he says in a glum tone, “No. I’m fine. Help me turn around.”

A figure appears in your peripheral. You look toward the glass to see an old mailman, holding a box and knocking on the door.

“I got a package for a — Tony Stank? There a Tony Stank here?”

After whatever events happened in the last week that tore the leg off of Rhodey and the Avengers apart, you weren’t so sure you’d see it for a while, but the mistake of an aging mailman is all it takes for both Tony and Rhodey to smile.

“Steady. Got it, babe?” Tony hums, slowly letting go of Rhodey’s arm and looking at you. He shifts his weight and you pull Rhodey’s arm closer around your shoulder. “Great. Be right back.”

“I told you not to call me that in front of her,” Rhodey says.

“Right, of course. Sorry.” Tony opens the door, nodding at the mailman in thanks before taking the package. “I can’t help it — it’s the metal limb. You’re irresistible.”

“Tony, stop being distracting. He needs to focus. _Walk_ _.”_ You give Rhodey a pointed glare which he returns with a smile, and the two of you resume inching forward between the metal bars. You look at Tony, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks at the flat surface of the box. “Who’s it from?”

Eyes narrowed, he turns the box over, looking for something more that he can’t seem to find. “I don’t know.”

“There a name?”

“Not really.”

You and Rhodey exchange glances; Tony pulls out a seat and lifts his feet up onto the table, clicking a button behind his ears. His glasses materialize against his temples and onto the bridge of his nose.

“What does that mean?” Rhodey asks, vocalizing your thoughts exactly.

“There’s no name,” Tony says, plucking a pair of scissors from a drawer and slitting the tape on the edge of the box. “But there’s handwriting.”

“And?”

“It _does_ look like Tony Stank,” he mumbles offhandedly.

With that, he takes out a piece of paper from the box and leans back in his chair, falling silent as he reads.

The weight on your arm suddenly doubles. You reach out, pressing your free hand against Rhodey’s chest to keep him from toppling again and he grips the bar beside him.

“Ah, shit.”

“Is this — ” Your voice is strained as you struggle to hold an entire man off the ground. “Does this call for the floor?”

“A little late to ask.”

Indeed it is. You sink to the ground, anchored by Rhodey’s entire body weight, trying your best to let him down easy — but his chest hits the floor first and then his back as he rolls over to face the ceiling, both emitting hearty thuds and a clunk when his leg comes to rest too. You sit back on your heels and Rhodey closes his eyes, breathing for maybe the first time since he commenced walking practice.

“Sorry, Rhodes,” you say, pressing your palms against the floor behind you.

“Me too, Y/N,” he answers, hitting the ground blindly before finally seizing the water bottle not too far away.

“Remind me again,” you say between heaving breaths. He holds the bottle out to you and you take it gratefully, “how the hell this happened to you.”

“It was an accident.” You don’t miss the hint of scorn in his face. “Vision missed his target.”

You know enough about what’s been going on with the Avengers — the Accords, the fighting, the way the team split in half like they were never even friends — but this still comes as a surprise to you, which shows in your facial expression.

“Powerful yellow thing in his head Vision?” Rhodey nods. “Can-do-no-wrong, made-of-vibranium, picked-up-Thor’s-hammer Vision?”

“Yeah.”

You’re flabbergasted. _“Missed his target?”_

“No idea. It happened though.” Rhodey exhales, eyes lifting over your shoulder. “You know, I think I came out of it pretty beat, but there are a couple close runner-ups.”

You’d have to agree, turning your head to follow Rhodey’s gaze to Tony. Crimson cuts litter his face and arms, his right wrist in a cast and three fingers of his left hand bandaged together; shadowed by the sharp curve of his jaw is a bruise that he still has to ice a few times a day, which, now that you really look, has taken on a lovely shade of yellow. Though everything’s healing, you remember the few days when he couldn’t stand, sleep, or walk; he hurt everywhere, as expected after what he went through, and seeing him struggle was a struggle for you too. It can only serve as consolation that whatever they did to Tony, Tony did to them and maybe worse — "they" being Steve and his friend, the Winter Soldier.

You sigh at the thought. You’re indifferent about Bucky Barnes; you don’t respect him but don’t dislike him either (maybe leaning toward dislike just because of what he did to Tony’s parents, although you understand that wasn’t truly his doing). Steve, on the other hand — after the three years you and Tony have been together, you’ve come to get to know the members of the team quite well and view him as a friend. You still find it hard to fathom that the two of them fell apart so easily, but you suppose they had it coming, with all that happened with Barnes and the Accords.

“How’s he been?” Rhodey asks, interrupting your train of thought and lowering his voice.

“About as good you think.” You’re suddenly sad all over again, your heart heavy in your chest and words tar on your tongue. “He’s usually good at hiding it, but this time — it’s different.”

“He’s used to fighting off enemies,” Rhodey says, “but this time they were friends, and he had to fight them just the same. He had to fight _Steve_ just the same. It hit him hard. It hit all of us hard.”

You avert your eyes back to the man in the chair; Tony‘s reading the message with immense intensity, eyebrows furrowed, not even blinking, and you don’t think anything’s up until you notice the hand holding the letter is trembling ever so slightly, causing a flutter on the page that you can tell he’s trying to stop. You hesitate, wondering with pursed lips, getting to your feet. You glance at Rhodey.

“Go,” he says. He’s noticed too. Of course he has. “I’m good here with my floor.”

“Anything,” you say. “Leg starts hurting, foot starts cramping, ground starts getting too cold, shout me.”

“Will do.”

You shut the door after giving Rhodey a small smile, your footsteps echoing softly in the resonant living room until they come to a stop by Tony. He doesn’t look at you, eyes still on the letter, which you now see is covered from top to bottom in handwriting. As you lift yourself to sit on top of his desk, legs hanging off the edge, you suddenly think you know who it’s from.

Tony caves at your every touch, and the way you now run your hands along his shoulders is no exception, easing him between your legs and into your touch. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, turning his head to press his lips against your knuckles.

“It’s nice, right?” You ask softly. “Hearing from him.”

Tony exhales, letting the letter fall onto the tabletop. He touches his forehead to your wrist. “I think so.”

You don’t answer, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Not sure.” He touches his chest, fingers running over the previously shattered arc reactor. “There’s something else here too. Like my stomach’s on a drop tower. You know what I mean? It’s plummeting.”

Tony lifts his head, brown eyes meeting yours. Your hands fall to curl around the nape of his neck and your thumb dusts along his cheekbone, your eyes softening as you look at your boyfriend.

“I did the right thing, right?” Tony’s hands move to your hips and he pulls you close, the tip of his nose brushing the material of your top. “I was so sure at the time. I was dead set on it — I don’t think I’ve ever felt stronger about anything.”

Your finger gently hits a button on the metal behind his ear. His glasses melt away once again.

“You had good reason to do what you did, Tony.”

“I know.” It’s as if it pains him to say the words, a subtle flinch flitting across his features. “But we both did, and it fucking blows that we didn’t reach that conclusion sooner.”

“That would’ve saved a lot of hassle.”

“Yeah. And somebody’s leg.”

There’s a moment of silence, the only sound that of the soft whirring of machines that accompanies every room in this mansion.

“What’s in the letter?” You ask.

“Typical, infuriatingly kind, all-around-nice-guy bullshit,” he breathes, nose nuzzled against your stomach. “Because he just beat the shit out of me. What else is Steve Rogers gonna say?”

“You sound like you’re taking the bullshit as a little more than just bullshit.”

“I don’t sound like that at all, you just know me too well.”

_True._

“This is ridiculous. It’s _over._ Why am I still thinking about it?” Tony mutters. “I’ve never liked the looking in hindsight thing.”

“You idiot, you care about him. That’s what this is. That’s the drop tower.” Tony looks away at this, and you know you’re telling the truth. “The two of you have gone through hell and back together — New York, Sokovia, now this, and you’re disappointed that this happened at all. If you could, you’d go back in time and do it all over where you and Steve are fighting for each other, not against. Because you prefer when he’s on your team, and so do I.”

Tony toys with the hem of your shirt, his face expressionless though the slight tremble has returned. You take his hand in your own, drawing your thumb over his bruised knuckles.

“Please keep talking,” Tony says.

“Once the Avengers overcome this — and they _will_ — the team will be stronger than they’ve ever been. You have a bit to talk about, but it seems like Steve’s made the first offer to reconcile. That’s a good sign. He cares about you too.”

Both of you look towards the small black flip phone that came with the letter. Tony reaches over and flips the device open, eyes falling on a single name inputted in the list of contacts that causes a pang of hollowness to go off in his chest.

“Hey.” You graze a finger under his chin, lifting his eyes up so they meet yours. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I believe in you, Tony. You’ll make things right — you always do.”

He tilts his head a little to the right, his touch as gentle as feathers against your hips. “And what if you’re wrong?”

You lean down, pressing a kiss against his hairline, and he suddenly finds he doesn’t care about the answer; he believes your words with all his might.

“That’s a stupid question,” you mumble quietly. “I’m never wrong. Especially when it comes to you.”

Tony doesn’t think he can put into words how much he loves you just then, the moisture building in his eyes now due to more than just the thought of Steve.

“Believing in me,” Tony mutters, shaking his head. “You’ve been making that mistake for three years.”

“And I won’t stop until you do too.”

“You’ll be waiting a hell of a long time,” he says, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“So be it.”

Tony remembers something he meant to say before the sentimental part of the conversation. “My entire body still hurts, by the way.”

“I’d be worried if it didn’t. You fought Captain America, didn’t you?”

“The ripped son of a bitch _ruined_ me,” he says, breath fanning over your skin, “I don't work like I used to, honey. I can’t feel my face.”

You run your thumb along a healing cut by his lower lip. “Has Tylenol been working? Neosporin?”

“Yes, but I actually think you could try kissing it all better too.”

Your mouth curves into a smile as Tony reaches forward, his hand curling around the back of your neck to pull you in. “I'll give it a look,” you hum.

With that, he presses his lips flush against yours, commencing a chaste but wonderful kiss that you’ve familiarized yourself with after all this time. Your fingers curl in his hair as his hands nudge beneath the hem of your shirt to lace around the small of your back, his touch calloused but incredibly gentle, as always.

Your head is spinning and heart is hammering out of your chest when it's over. He lifts his chin to kiss your forehead, then your collarbone, finally resting his head against your chest and letting his eyes fall shut, lashes brushing your skin. As your hand runs through the hair on the back of his head, you can’t help thinking something feels different in the kiss — and something has been different since the breakup of the Avengers. You think maybe he’s been kissing you harder to show himself he can’t lose you like he lost them; like he lost Steve.

Still, it’s a good sign he has the heart to flirt, and that alone tells you you’re right to stand by your words: he’ll be okay.

They’ll all be.

“A little better?” You whisper. “Your entire body, I mean.”

“Yeah.” He knows you don’t just mean that, but he nods nonetheless. “Yeah.”


End file.
